Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II

by Jack Badelaire

  The factory worker repeated Lynch’s words to the German, who shook his head and snarled something at the older man, thrusting the muzzle of the MP-38 at the Norwegian’s face.

  At the rear of the factory, Higgins and Herring descended the stairs from the upper level, but a subtle shake of Lynch’s head caused them to hold their position. From where they stood, any attempt to kill the German risked hitting the Norwegians. Of Nelson there was no sign, and knowing his squad-mate’s reckless attitude, that worried Lynch.

  A movement from behind the German caught Lynch’s eye. The young blonde woman had slowly risen to her feet, and Lynch saw she had some kind of hammer or mallet in her hand. She was directly behind the German, and he hadn’t noticed her, but she was only a few feet away from him. It was a foolish thing to do, but there was no way for Lynch to discourage her without giving her presence away to the German, who’d likely shoot her. So instead, Lynch took several bold steps forward, drawing the man’s attention.

  The German took an involuntary step backwards, and the blonde girl made her move. With her right hand she grabbed the barrel of the machine pistol and pulled it upwards, away from the other hostages, while she brought the mallet up over her head and swung it at the German’s neck, clubbing him right below the edge of his helmet. The German staggered and fired a long burst from his weapon, the bullets chopping into the wall over the hostages’ heads. The girl cried out in pain as the barrel burned her hand, and she swung the mallet again, striking the German in the side of his neck. The German stumbled, then twisted and wrenched the MP-38 from her grasp.

  Lynch cursed and aimed his pistol, praying he could kill the German without shooting the girl in the process. But before he could take the shot, a hand reached out from underneath a nearby conveyor belt, grabbing the German by the ankle and yanking him off his feet. The German tried to raise his machine pistol again, but the girl stomped on his hand, pinning it to the floor. With a scream of rage, she raised the mallet and brought it down with both hands, smashing it into the German’s face with a sickening crunch.

  There was a moment of silence, as everyone - British and Norwegian - stared at the dead German. The girl stood up straight, dropped the mallet, and swayed, her eyes wide in horror. Nelson crawled out from underneath the conveyor belt and caught her as she began to sag towards the floor.

  “Bloody hell, I think she’s fainted,” Nelson declared.

  Lynch moved to the German and kicked the machine pistol away from his hand, then put his fingers to the man’s neck, feeling for a pulse. There was nothing, and he nodded in satisfaction. The last blow of the mallet had left a considerable dent in the the German’s forehead.

  White raised his Thompson and scanned the rest of the factory. “Did we get them all?” he asked.

  “I killed three, so I did,” Lynch replied. “And this bastard makes four now.”

  “I shot the bloke with the grenade, and one other, so that makes six,” White said

  “I ended two, and knocked a Jerry sergeant senseless,” Nelson replied. “Poor bastard’s machine pistol jammed, and with the look he gave me, I took pity on him. Clubbed him with the butt of my Thompson.”

  Lynch looked to Higgins and Herring. “The upper level?”

  Herring drew a finger across his throat. Lynch nodded.

  The older man who’d translated for them stood up and moved to where Nelson stood holding the blonde girl. He murmured something to her in Norwegian, and she nodded, tears running down her cheeks. She slowly extricated herself from Nelson’s arms, giving the big Commando a soft smile.

  The Norwegian man turned to Lynch. “What you did here was very brave. Thank you.”

  Lynch looked down at the blond German, a corporal like himself. A minute ago the man was willing to kill a score of innocents to save his own skin. Lynch did not know if the German had been bluffing or not, but it didn’t matter. The Gefreiter had made his choice, and paid for it with his life.

  Lynch met the Norwegian’s gaze and shook his head. “Not brave, no. Just necessary.”

  Chapter 26

  South Vaagso

  1400 Hours

  Lynch stood in the belly of an assault landing craft as it reversed its engines and slowly slid away from the beachhead. To the north-east, columns of smoke rose along the South Vaagso docks, as the demolished factories and warehouses burned. Other, smaller, columns of smoke rose throughout the town, marking places where buildings burned as a result of the fighting. To his left, the bombed landing craft still smouldered on the water, leaving the stink of white phosphorous lingering in the air and causing Lynch to cough when the wind blew it towards him.

  Along the beach, a handful of Commandos remained. Men policed the area where the wounded had been, collecting any abandoned weapons, while others helped a number of Norwegians to board a landing craft. Dozens had volunteered to leave their homes and go into exile in Britain. Some would find a way to support the war effort in one fashion or another, while others were simply fleeing the wrath of the Germans. Even at a distance, Lynch saw the young blonde girl and her parents board the landing craft.

  “Looks like your girlfriend is coming back to Blighty with us,” White said to Nelson, elbowing his comrade in the ribs.

  “Right proper pair of bristols on that one,” Nelson replied with a big grin, his hands cupping the air in front of him. “Hope she’ll let me buy her a drink or three when we get into port.”

  Lynch gave his friend a withering look and shook his head, then turned to Bowen, who wore a drawn, nervous expression.

  “What’s troubling you, boyo?” Lynch asked.

  Bowen nodded towards the cruiser Kenya. “We never heard anything about the lieutenant, or Sergeant McTeague.”

  Lynch patted Bowen on the shoulder. “They’re tough blokes, to be sure. Once we’re aboard the Prince Charles, I’ll get some answers.”

  The sniper nodded, but said nothing in reply.

  Soon after they had taken the last factory and rescued the Norwegians, Lieutenant-Colonel Durnford-Slater and Captain Young had declared South Vaagso clear of any organized resistance. If there were Germans remaining, they’d either fled the town, or gone into hiding. Overhead, off in the distance, German fighter planes continued to harass the RAF Blenheims providing air cover, although none of the enemy aircraft dared draw close enough to risk the anti-aircraft fire of the warships. Lynch had no idea how many RAF aircraft had been lost, but there were more distant columns of smoke in the hills beyond South Vaagso, where both British and German planes had gone down.

  Higgins nudged Lynch and pointed towards shore. “Look there. It’s the lieutenant-colonel and Captain Young. Seems like they’re arguing about something.”

  Lynch squinted towards the shoreline, and watched as the Commando captain finally saluted his superior officer and stepped aboard the last of the landing craft. The men watched as Durnford-Slater, the last man ashore, turned and gave a last look towards South Vaagso before he too boarded the landing craft. With a puff of engine smoke, the lieutenant-colonel’s boat pulled away from the beach, and with the last men of the assault force now embarked on their landing craft, the boats’ coxswains turned their craft away from shore. The deck under Lynch’s feet vibrated as their craft’s engine drove them west, towards the Prince Charles.

  They were going home.

  Chapter 27

  Aboard The Hms Prince Leopold

  1500 Hours

  Flight-Sergeant Reginald Smith took the offered mug of hot, sweet tea from a naval rating and held it for a moment, letting the warmth soak into his hands. He no longer shivered uncontrollably, having been stripped of his sodden uniform and underclothes some time ago when he was still delirious. Now, wearing borrowed clothing and wrapped up in a half-dozen woolen blankets, Smith sat on the edge of a bunk and watched the Medical Officer stand up and place the stethoscope back around his neck.

  “Your blood pressure and temperature seem to be back to normal, and your pulse is good and s
trong,” the M.O., a captain named Corry, told Smith. “Aside from that lump on the side of your head, you don’t appear to have any other injuries, just a few cuts and bruises. Overall, you’re a very lucky young man.”

  Smith nodded, still unable to fully process what had happened. He remembered the Hampden being hit with flak, remembered trying to manoeuvre the aircraft away from the town, the wing catching the water...but beyond that, he recalled nothing until he woke up an hour ago, aboard one of the troop transports.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” Smith asked.

  Corry sat down on the bunk across from Smith and gestured towards the rating, who saluted and left the cabin, closing the door behind him.

  “The bridge crew saw your plane go down, steamed to your position, and found you and two others on the surface. Your bomber had, by that time, sunk.”

  Smith looked down into his mug. “We were a crew of four.”

  “One of your men must not have made it out of the plane before it went down, or died upon impact,” Corry said softly.

  Smith raised his head. “The other lads? I’d like to see them now, if I could.”

  Corry glanced away, and Smith felt his stomach knot up.

  “The other two men...neither of them regained consciousness. I'm sorry, son. I truly am. But they both died before you came to,” Corry said at last.

  Smith sat in silence for a long moment, before clearing his throat and speaking again. “The rest of the squadron, did we lose any more?”

  Corry nodded. “One other Hampden was shot down, but I don’t know any of the details. A number of Blenheims were also lost, although I don’t know how many. It was quite the brawl overhead. But none of the ships was seriously damaged, and none of the lads ashore were bombed or strafed by the Germans, so those aircrews did their job.”

  A horrible thought came to Smith’s mind. “When we were hit, the smoke bomb fell free over the landing craft. Please tell me it didn’t…”

  Corry’s face turned grim. “It landed in the middle of one of the landing craft. There...there were casualties.”

  In his mind’s eye, Smith saw what the results must have been like. He knew how those white phosphorous bombs exploded, spraying burning fragments for dozens of yards in every direction. In the close-packed confines of a landing craft, it must have been horrific.

  “My bombardier, he said the bomb broke free,” Smith whispered. “He said the mechanism must have been damaged when we were hit. If there was anything I could have done to stop it…”

  Corry shook his head. “Sometimes, son, these things just happen. What is important to remember is, the mission was a success. The lads beat the Germans, fought them from one end of the town to the other, and all the factories and ships were destroyed. Now we’re sailing back to Scapa Flow, and then we’ll see you returned to the rest of your squadron.”

  Smith nodded. With shaking hands, he took another sip from his mug of tea, then turned and looked towards the cabin’s tiny porthole. Beyond the thick glass, he saw the iron-grey sky.

  “If there’s nothing more you need to do, sir, I’d like to be alone for a while,” Smith said quietly.

  Corry stood and picked up his medical bag. Laying a hand on Smith’s shoulder, Corry looked down at the bomber pilot.

  “Get some rest, lad.”

  Smith continued to stare out the porthole as Corry closed the cabin door behind him.

  Chapter 28

  Berkshire County, England

  January 14th, 1942

  “Lance-sergeant? He’s ready to see you now.”

  Lynch turned his head and looked at the young nurse. She was a petite brunette, holding a silver tray bearing an empty water goblet and gold-rimmed china plate.

  “Thank you, miss,” Lynch replied.

  The nurse gestured down the hall behind her, towards the open door. “Only a few minutes, please. He needs his afternoon nap.”

  Lynch nodded. “Of course, miss.”

  He gave the painting before him one last look. It was a beautifully-rendered depiction of a naval battle, where a British ship fired a broadside against another ship flying a French flag. Based on the design of the ships and the numbers of guns, Lynch guessed it to be some Napoleonic battle, although his understanding of naval warfare and history was sparse at best. Given the family who owned the painting, he had no doubt some long-dead relative had been standing on the deck of the British warship, gesturing about with a drawn sword, a great deal of gold braid adorning his uniform.

  “Lance-sergeant?” the nurse repeated.

  “Sorry, miss,” Lynch replied, and turned from the painting. He left the foyer and walked down the hallway, with its walls of dark, polished wood, gleaming brass fixtures, and more paintings every few paces. The door at the end of the hall was open a few inches, daylight slicing out across the floor and up the wall. Taking a deep breath, Lynch pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  Whatever purpose the room once served, it had been converted into a private hospital room. A large, four-poster bed dominated the space, but instead of furnishings of a similar style - bedside table, bureau, wardrobe, and so forth - there were instead clinical substitutes of antiseptic white and polished metal. Various accoutrements one might find in a hospital recovery room were set about here and there, and an intravenous bottle stand stood alongside the bed, a half-empty bottle of clear fluid hanging, its line running into the arm of the bed’s occupant.

  “My god, Thomas! Brilliant of you to visit. Pardon me if I can’t sit up, I'm afraid I’m not all that mobile.”

  Price’s head was swathed in bandages covering the left side of his face. Lynch saluted his commanding officer, and Price slowly raised his arm to return the gesture, wincing with the effort. Lynch stepped up to Price’s side, and he saw the lieutenant’s right eye move as Price noticed the rank insignia on Lynch’s arm.

  “So, you’ve been promoted to sergeant! Congratulations!” Price exclaimed.

  “Only lance-sergeant, sir, but thank you,” Lynch replied.

  Price’s face grew worried. “Oh dear, does that mean...Dougal…?”

  Lynch shook his head. “Sergeant McTeague survived his wound, so he did, sir. Even a Jerry stick grenade couldn’t crack that bloody thick skull of his. But the M.O. says it’ll be another month before he’s fit for duty. Terrible concussion, the doctors say.”

  “Ah, that’s good news. Well, better than the alternative, of course. And the other lads?” Price asked.

  “Hall is on crutches, but he should be fit for duty in the spring. All the other men are fine, so they are, and they all wish you well,” Lynch answered.

  Price looked away for a moment, nodding. “Good, that’s good. I’m glad you’ve got a third stripe, Tom. You deserve it. Hopefully you’ll make full sergeant soon, eh? I can write a letter, if you like.”

  “That isn’t necessary, sir.” Lynch replied. “But I appreciate the thought. Sergeant McTeague will be fit for duty before we go into the field again.”

  “What other news?” Price asked. “I read the reports in the Gazette, but since then, I have heard little except a couple of brief letters from the lieutenant-colonel.”

  Lynch shuffled his feet for a moment. “With Captain Forrester gone, rumor has it they’re reforming No. 4 Troop with Captain Eldred returning to take command.”

  “Ah, I see,” Price said. “Captain Eldred is a fine officer, and he thinks highly of you, Tom. This is good news. Now, any word on my replacement?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s new to 3 Commando, so he is. Transferring in from the LRDG. Lieutenant by the name of Stambridge, sir. Sergeant McTeague has met him already, so he has, and says Lieutenant Stambridge is as tough as they come.”

  “Aha, well, that’s good,” Price replied. “This war, it isn’t going to be over any time soon, Tom. And we’ll need tough men to win it. Men like yourself, Sergeant McTeague, Corporal Nelson. Men who can rise to the challenge, who can carry the fight to the enemy time and again.”
>
  Lynch gave the lieutenant a weak smile. “Don’t count yourself out of the fight just yet, sir. You’ll be on your feet soon enough, so you will.”

  Price shook his head slightly. “They had to cut out my left eye, Tom. What was left of it, at least. I will eventually recover, and they’re not discharging me from the army just yet, but I doubt I’ll return to lead men in battle. If I do serve the war effort again, I fear it’ll be from behind a desk.”

  “Nah, no talk like that now, sir,” Lynch replied. “If anyone can fight Jerries in an eyepatch, it’ll be you.”

  Price smiled. “I appreciate the sentiment, Tom. I really do. But it’ll be a long time before I’m fit for anything more than making a dent in this bed, and being pushed around the family estate in a wheelchair.”

  “Certainly beats a hospital ward, so it does,” Lynch said.

  “This is true. My uncle wrote a letter or two on my behalf, and it does help to come from a family of means.” Price gestured towards the artwork on the walls. “I feel guilty that all our wounded do not receive the same level of comfort, but such is the way of the world, I suppose.”

  There was a soft knock at the door, and the nurse entered. “Lieutenant Price, your guest needs to leave. It’s time for your afternoon nap.”

  “You see, Tom? My schedule has been reduced to that of a toddler,” Price said with a chuckle. “It’s fitting, you see, because this room used to be the nursery.”

  Price extended a hand that shook ever so slightly. “It was good to see you again, Corp-, I mean, Lance-Sergeant. Give my best to the other lads.”

  “I shall, sir. Never fear,” Lynch replied, and shook Price’s hand. The lieutenant's grip was soft and without any strength. Lynch released Price’s hand, gave a last salute, and then left the room, turning his head away from the nurse so she did not see the tears streaking his cheeks.